


Sunburn

by arctickchild



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Second person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctickchild/pseuds/arctickchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your fingers hum in the space between you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by the fantastic ecpaulstein. Danke, Ravi~

When you first see him, he is standing outside the _Kobayashi Maru_ simulation.

He is holding a PADD and frowning, and it will not occur to you until much later to question what is on it. For now, this is the first time he is taking the test. You do not think it will be his last. Even from 19.73 meters, his mind shines brighter than any human you’ve seen.

Six months later, you face him across a crowded room. He is shining and unrepentant, and he holds himself with a confidence and certainty that borders on arrogance. You meet his eye as you explain the sub-routine his virus introduced in the program, and he does not look away.

You shouldn’t be, but you are impressed with him, with his nerve as well as the skill he needs to create such a deceptively simple virus. You cannot find an acceptable reason to make this known. You do anyway.

It would be illogical to be pleased at the way his eyes crease as he grins at you, so you aren’t.

*

You do not see him again for eleven years, five months, and six days.

You hear his name often. He earns more commendations and honours in those eleven years than you will in the entirety of your career. He is promoted quickly. Soon, he is the youngest captain Starfleet has ever appointed.

Captain Pike speaks of him often, with the affectionate pride you have learned is connected with children, or favoured students. Occasionally, Pike seems awed by all he has achieved.

Sometimes when you hear his name, you remember the way he carried himself at his hearing. You do not wonder if he has the same smile when he remembers the commendation he earned for his performance. You know he does.

*

You watch from your station when he takes command of the Enterprise over from Captain Pike.

The first thing he does is introduce himself to the senior staff. They are less than pleased to be serving under a man they feel is far too young, and far too inexperienced, for such an assignment.

He doesn’t seem to notice their objections. He certainly never acknowledges them. He smiles, and shakes their hands, and when they request transfers he grants them with a cold smile and a steely glint in his eye.

You are the last to meet him. When he introduces himself, he is careful not to touch you. He offers a poor imitation of the _ta’al_ , and you raise an eyebrow as you resist the urge to correct it.

“I come to serve,” he offers, and you don’t smile because there would be no reason for it.

You do, however, return the gesture, and with far more skill than he possesses. “Your service honours us,” you say, and you are not laughing. He is your commanding officer. It would be inappropriate.

He grins, and forces his fingers to mirror yours.

“I look forward to working with you, Mr Spock,” he says.

Within a week, half of the senior staff has requested transfers. The other half is gone within a month. You stay.

He has potential - a great amount of potential. You do not intend to be absent when it is realized.

*

You are playing chess in the rec room. The environmental controls in your quarters have malfunctioned, and it is far too cold for you to rest comfortably.

You play yourself, because the computer is undergoing maintenance. The crew has, as a whole, decided that they are no longer willing to continue being beaten in less than ten minutes. It seems an unreasonable position, in your mind. Practice is the surest method of improvement, and they have removed themselves from the most reliable form of practice.

You notice when he enters the room. You cannot help it. Even off duty, he is the captain: commanding and confident. You cannot keep from noticing him. No one can.

He takes a seat across from you and watches you play. He is smiling, soft and amused. You cannot help finding it rather… distracting.

You finish your game and turn to him. It has ended in a draw, as you knew it would. He is looking over the board, intent and curious.

You do not understand why he is still here. You have found that there are few humans who find three-dimensional chess worth their attention, and even fewer with the patience to sit through a game without becoming frustrated.

“Captain,” you say, and he looks up at you. “Do you require my assistance with something?”

He smiles. You’ve noticed that he does this with far more frequency than Captain Pike did, even prior to Rigel.

“You play very well,” he says. “We should play together.”

You consider this for a moment. “I would not object to a game,” you say finally. “I hope that you experience loss with more dignity than your crew.”

It would be illogical to be amused at the way his eyes narrow at the challenge, or the gentle curve of his mouth as he smirks. So you aren’t.

*

You have played chess with several people since joining Starfleet. Your last consistent challenges came from Captain Pike and his first officer. Pike’s strategy seemed to primarily consist of emotion and impulse. Number One was cool, detached, and always moved with an infallible logic.

They were consistent, and they provided a challenge - a challenge, but not a threat.  
James Kirk is different. He makes his moves quickly, and with no detectable pattern, yet he manages to counter each move you make. He smiles, soft and dangerous: a silent challenge. Find your way around it, Commander. Show me what your logic can do.

The first game of the night lasts fifty-eight minutes, and ends in a stalemate. The second lasts two hours and seventeen minutes. You win simply because he makes a foolish mistake with his remaining knight.

He grins as you pack up the board, and picks up a piece he knocked to the floor. Your fingers don’t quite touch as he hands it to you. Your skin hums from the proximity.

“Thank you, Mr Spock,” he says. “We should play again sometime.”

He leaves before you can reply. You open your hand to stare at the piece he gave you: the queen. Your fingers ache.

He, you decide, is most certainly a threat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was Ravi's favourite chapter. Really. Just ask her.

You are approaching the galactic barrier, and he is distracted.

“I’ll have you checkmated your next move,” you tell him. You know it will come across as a taunt, although you will never confess to it being such. He looks away from the view screen, and he smiles, amused and warm.

“Have I ever told you that you play a very irritating game of chess, Mr Spock?” he asks, but the tension has eased from his shoulders.

“Irritation?” you repeat, and you’re definitely not smiling. “Ah, yes. One of your Earth emotions.”

He is grinning as he makes his move. His eyes are creased at the corners, and he appears far too confident. You frown, examining the board.

He has put you on the defensive, and you absolutely do not scowl as you look for a way to reclaim the advantage.

“You sure you don’t know what irritation is?” He’s teasing you. He is the only one you have met who feels comfortable enough to do so. You still aren’t sure quite what to make of that.

You move to protect your king. “The fact that one of my ancestors married a human female,” you start. You don’t finish, because you know he will.

“Terrible, having bad blood like that,” he says. He doesn’t miss a beat.

In two moves, you are lost. He hands you his queen as you pick up the board, and your fingers don’t so much touch as hum against each other in the shrinking distance between them.

*

The tension, you decide, is not the worst part. You can live with tension. You’ve done it for years, first on Vulcan, and then later at the Academy. It sits with you more easily, at times, than your own skin.

What makes you nervous is not the tension. It’s the warmth beneath it, the calm and steady current that washes over you like sunlight when he smiles. It’s more brilliant than friendship and gentler than passion, and it makes your pulse race within your veins when you see it.

It is not something you can put a name to, but it pulls you towards him like a magnet. To defy it is unthinkable; to acknowledge it is insanity. You hover in the limbo between the two, unable to deny and unwilling to accept.

It is a place you are familiar with. It is a place where you are safe. You may be isolated, but isolation is safe. If no one reaches you, no one can hurt you. If no one can find you, you can’t hurt them.

But he is very, _very_ good at finding you.

*

The first time he kisses you, it is an accident.

You are handing him a PADD, and his fingers brush against yours. It is quick and light, and a human might not have noticed it at all.

You aren’t human. His fingers brush against yours and leave a trail like fire on your skin, and you freeze. No one else on the bridge seems to have noticed. If they had, they probably do not understand what they’ve seen. You doubt he even realizes what he’s done.

It is an accident, you remind yourself. It will likely never happen again.

When you take the PADD you are careful to avoid his touch. Your fingers ache where he touched them. When you meditate that night, you are unable to push the sensation from your mind.

You do not consider that perhaps it is because you do not wish to.

*

The first time you kiss him, he is drunk.

He tastes of alcohol and chocolate, and he’s warm and firm as you pull him closer. His mouth is hot and insistent as it devours you, taking all that you have to offer, and more.

One hand becomes entangled in short, thick brown hair. The other has been so completely twisted within another’s grasp that you do not know when, or if, you will ever separate them. It does not matter, at the moment. His head is being yanked back, your hand cushioning it as you shove him against a wall and turn your attention to his throat.

The mental feedback is almost too strong. You don’t remember melding, but the heat and longing and desperate, aching want that is pulsing through you is too strong to belong to you alone. It is fire and sunlight and so strong you’re nearly sick with it; you need to pull away, need to catch your breath and clear your head and _think_ before - 

You can’t. He is coming apart at the seams, and you can’t pull yourself away, can barely breathe as you press yourself against him until you can feel his pulse as it races through his skin, and you don’t remember that you, at least, are still dressed until you feel his hand slip under your uniform and try to pull it over your head - 

“ _Spock_.” He gasps the name against your lips as you go to kiss him again, and he smells of cheap whiskey and over-priced chocolate.

You pull yourself away, with enough force that you nearly lose your balance. You can still taste him on your lips, feel the pressure of his fingers digging into the back of your hand, and you are horrified.

“Captain,” you say, and your voice is hoarse and uneven. You can feel the shame creeping across your skin, cold and sick. You shouldn’t have - your commanding officer - your _friend_ \- you shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have taken advantage of him when - 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, and you turn and flee before you can give in to the hunger in his eyes and the buzz that lingers on your skin.

In the morning, he remembers nothing. If he notices that you can’t quite meet his eyes, he doesn’t say a word.

You do not think about the way his hair felt in your hand, or how he moaned when you explored his throat. And when you speak to him, you say nothing of the hum that has buried itself in your bones.

*

You are leaving to complete the Kohlinar discipline. You do not meet his gaze.

He is confused, and hurt, and trying to hide it all with a smile. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know how your fingers ache when he falls just short of touching you, or the way your blood burns when you remember how his throat tasted as it burned beneath your tongue.

You cannot look him in the eye as you say goodbye. It takes all the control you possess not to touch him; your knuckles hurt from the grip you have on your belongings. He reaches out as you step back, as if he will grab you.

You do not give him the opportunity. You turn and leave before either of you can say - or do - something you will both regret.

You can feel him watching you as you leave, and you cannot turn. You cannot fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness, or force yourself to explain what you’ve done. That would be foolish, irrational. You are leaving; this is the best, the only, way to proceed.

It would be illogical to be shaking as you step into your shuttle.

You are.


End file.
